A letter to Morrissey: Stephen, Take a Bow

Dear Stephen Patrick Morrissey,

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Yes, I’m fully aware that you despise your birth name, but don’t think I’m using it as a cheap weapon against you. In fact, I rather dislike my own name so to criticise you for simply distancing yourself from yours would be hypocritical of me. No, my beef is much fatter than that.

Mozart. Beethoven. Chopin. Morrissey. What do these famous mononymous figures have in common? As you claim, some kind of partnership in genius, in being great classical composers. Ironically, for someone who loathes the superiority complex of the British Royals so deeply, you inhabit a self-dug hole of similarly duplicitous arrogance. Granted, for someone to claim a divine right to rule is a ludicrous concept at best, but for an outspoken critic of that conceited attitude it is tricky to simultaneously mention oneself in the same breath as the most revered classical composers of all time. Mozart was fully aware of his talent and was by no means humble, he was also a filthy-minded brat who loved to party. My problem with you, Stephen Patrick Morrissey, is not only your gargantuan ego and theatrical bigotry, but sometimes merely just boils down to the fact that you’re just so fucking miserable.

Before you try to diminish my credibility as a judge, I’d like to clarify that I am indeed a fan of your music. Well, strictly The Smiths. I haven’t had the chance to rifle through your solo career yet, and perhaps never will. Why is that? I admit, it seems a bit unfair, to unload a barrage of hatred on you without having the full picture. The way I see it though, the full picture seems even uglier. In your music video for ‘Suedehead’, a clearly ignorant infant offers you a gift at your doorstep. Responding to Robert Smith’s dismissal of you as a ‘professional moaner’, you instead proclaim “Well, I am an extremely beautiful person”. On the Jonathan Ross show a few years ago when you were promoting ‘You Are the Quarry’ (A likely cryptic insult to everyone in existence), your meek response to Jonathan’s praise of the album was “It’s very good”, declaring it to be your “best ever album” among any Smiths album. I could go on and on, the list stretches out into oblivion.

However, the recent publication of your autobiography as a Penguin Classic just stirs something deep inside me which ignites a fire under my bloodstream until it reaches 1000 degrees.  I mean, and I’m being restrained here, where the fuck does a thought process like that even come from? It may well have been Penguin attempting to widen their demographic and include someone (reasonably) modern in their pantheon, but even agreeing to something like that is descending to a far lower depth than I thought possible.

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Your army of staunch disciples, normally embodied by a bespectacled chubby teenager, may come to your defence on that one, much like you feign compassion for the plight of Manchester’s working class. Then again, you don’t do them any disservice. You make sure to include various clips of your fans screaming their adoration of you in your live concert footage. I wonder though, if any of them can really defend the fact that the same person who likely wishes for their own death on an hourly basis but is not actually dead could be someone published under that title of classic?

Time is the ultimate authority on artistic or literary value, Mozza. Most people publishing their memoirs tend to give their titles a spark of originality or humour, but no, a simple ‘Autobiography’ will do for you, as if to say that the whole world has been on its knees, scratching at its eyeballs in wait for your indispensable life story, which I imagine starts and ends with unrelenting glumness. And yet, for all your frostiness, you stand there at the press launch of Autobiography, arms out, ready to celebrate yourself like a good monomaniac should. Come off it Stephen. You’re not fooling anyone. You may love our furry friends, but it’s Mozza who’s king in your heart.

Your lyrics indicate an acerbic wit and earnestness which seems to be absent from your public persona.  I mean, am I missing some pivotal detail? Could this be some of your sarcasm that I just don’t get? I don’t know. People describe you as marmite, but I frankly I am an in-between with marmite. I like it, but I certainly don’t love it, contrary to the love-it or hate-it label. Personally, I find it easier to picture someone being in love with Thatcher (you do both share a militant fan base). Then again, as you so modestly stated, you are after all a ‘sex object in every sense of the word’. It really shouldn’t be me who’s baffled by statements like this. If that is in fact your idea of sardonic humour, I’d say make it clearer, but I predict that you’d just patronise me for my ignorance.

You can’t have it both ways, enigmatically lamenting in the corner of the club but at the same time desperately hogging the limelight and eschewing any tact by calling Chinese people sub-species. It hurts me to say it but, you’re better than that. Not that I anticipate this rant will have any impact on your behaviour. Instead, I’m sure you will carry out your unrewarding days the same, as the bequiffed, narcissistic Mancunian poster boy of despair and controversy. Or rather, as Mac from Green Wing so eloquently put it, ‘An attention seeking dilettante, wallowing in teenage angst whilst displaying a spurious nostalgia for the working classes’.

Lighten up Moz. You’ll snuff it eventually.


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